


Sweet as Pomegranates

by lookninjas



Series: Variations on a Theme of Pomegranates [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death can come as a lover, if you welcome Him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet as Pomegranates

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a variant on that perennial kink meme favorite, "the one where one character is a God who takes sacrifices, and the other character is this year's sacrifice," inspired more than a little by some of the Hades/Persephone meta I'd seen floating around on tumblr. There are some references to homophobia in a quasi-historical setting.

In the center of the circle of birch trees, at the very heart of the sacred grove, the Gift awaits.

He is striking; the God actually pauses in His steady steps, arrested by the sight. In the pale beams of the new moon, the Gift shines dark gold, very different from the pale prizes so often offered. He is unadorned, as is customary; he is also unbound, which is not. No ropes twist red marks into his wrists or bind his ankles to prevent panicked flight; the Gift kneels seemingly of his own volition, fingers twisted together and resting on his thighs, hiding his sex from view. Even as the God resumes His steady steps, making no effort to be silent, to conceal His approach, the Gift does not move. His head, dropped low, is not lifted; his shoulders, sagging as though with defeat, do not tense. He simply waits, passive, unresisting.

"You are not bound," the God observes, kneeling in front of the Gift to examine him. He trails His fingers, pale as the new moon, down the dark gold of the Gift's bared arms, traces the bones of his unbound wrists, delicate things that lead to the even more delicate bones of the hands, the fingers. The God lifts a hand to study it more closely, to twine His fingers with the Gift's and see how their hands look, joined. The Gift does not resist Him; he moves as He moves him, doesn't look up. "It is tradition to bind the sacrifice. But they did not bind you."

"No," the Gift responds, his voice a little hoarse, as though the Gift is in some sort of pain. The God wonders if He could, given time, smooth the tones of that voice, make it sing more sweetly. "They did not. It was... It was not necessary."

"Because you do not run from Me." The God continues stroking the Gift with His moon-pale fingers, traces the curve of a kneecap, the winged line of the collarbone. He cannot help but find Himself fascinated by the contrast between that sun-gold skin and His own silvery complexion. "You could run, but you do not. Why?"

The Gift does not answer at first. The God reaches up to trail His fingertips along the Gift's strong jawline, gently urging him to lift his head and look Him in the eye. When he does, the God is again caught by the unusual beauty of the Gift, by eyes that are green and gold and brown all at once, the colors of the good earth in the heart of summer. Then, too, there are the long dark lashes, the thick dark eyebrows, the lush head of curling dark hair. Surely, this Gift must be something beyond mortal, some child of nature stolen and imprisoned by folk too ignorant to appreciate his true worth. The God has been offered many Gifts, but this a treasure beyond any price.

But the God has asked a question, and He is accustomed to being answered, no matter how worthy the one being questioned. "Why," He asks again, cupping the Gift's face in His hands, tracing the line of a thick, dark eyebrow, testing the plump lips with His thumb, "do you not run from Me?"

The Gift hitches in a deep breath, shudders, his whole body trembling; the God keeps one hand on his cheek but lets His other drift down to a bare, warm shoulder, steadying. "Because," the Gift says, voice barely a whisper. His eyes fall shut; the God indulges the lapse. He does not always understand mortals or their emotions, does not always have patience with their tears or fits. But this particular mortal, this Gift... This one is different. "Because I have no place to go," the Gift says. "If I fled, if I tried to... They would kill me. They made that very clear."

"There are those who would harbor the sacrifice," the God reminds him, gently. "They would protect you."

"Not me." A fat, crystal tear slips out from behind the Gift's closed eyes, dampening the thick, luxurious lashes. "I am... different. From the others. No one would protect me."

A few more tears; the God brushes them away with gentle fingertips, moon-pale against golden skin. "They would not protect you, even from Me?" He asks, softly.

The Gift shakes his head. "It is not You I fear," it murmurs. "My people, my... The man who fathered me, the others like him. I fear them. I do not fear You."

The God smiles, cups the Gift's face in His moon-pale hands. "You do not fear Death?"

"Death comes many ways," the Gift says, eyes still tight shut. "My mother told me that, when I was a boy. Death can be cruel, but He can be... He can be kind, if He chooses. He can be a friend, if you welcome Him. If you put yourself in His hands, He can be... He can be gentle. Like a mother singing a child to sleep. Or the kiss of a lover, to wake you in the morning." The Gift's eyes open at that, summer-bright and beautiful; they fix on the God's face with something almost like hope.

"A lover," the God echoes, one pale hand slipping down the Gift's bared throat, a soft caress against the yielding skin. "Your mother was wise. She knew the old stories."

"They... They said she was a witch," the Gift says, a little breathless. His voice is already sweeter, even as faint as it is, something deep and dark and rich coloring the tones. "They said that if she smiled on the fields, they would bring forth riches. But if she... If she frowned upon them, that they would wither and die, and the harvest come to nothing, no matter how many sacrifices were given. They feared her."

"And yet they give you to Me," the God reminds him. "The witch's boy. Surely they fear her curse as much as they fear Mine."

The Gift's eyes flutter shut again; more tears, pure as rainwater, dampen his dark lashes. His breath comes heavy in his chest. "She is gone now," the Gift says. "A sickness took her. They said it was the devil that fathered me, calling in his debt, but I don't believe that any more than I believe in witches. I know the old stories, as she taught me, and I keep the old ways, and I serve the old Gods -- You, and the Good Mother -- and I serve Them only. But my people... When the crops were scarce, the next summer, they blamed me. Because I... Because I am different, they said I was a curse to them. They said..." The Gift trembles beneath the God's touch. "My mother told me that in the old days, it was not uncommon for a man to love another man, even though the union could bear no fruit. But the people in the village, the man who fathered me... They said it was a curse. That as long as I remained among them, the fields would prove as barren as I myself. They said they would give me to You, in the hopes that You would take me, and rid them of me."

"And so they give you to Me now," the God says.

The Gift opens its eyes, those eyes that hold the warmth and promise of summer; he takes a deep breath, and says, strong and clear, "No. I... No. No one gives me. I come to You of my own will, unbound, and I give myself, freely. If... If You would have me."

"Is that truly what you wish?" The God raises up on strong legs, leans in close, one hand on the Gift's bare shoulder, the other still cupping the Gift's strong chin. He breathes in, scenting the air -- the Gift smells of clean earth and bright sunlight, the warmth of the forest, and surely this is no mortal, no mere witch's boy. No wonder his folk feared him so; they knew, with the instinctive cunning of small people, how much this Gift was worth, so much more than any of them. He wonders they didn't try to rid themselves of him sooner, witch or no witch. "Would you take Death as a lover? Would you give yourself to Him, to keep and to cherish?"

"I..." The Gift sways closer, like a flower lifting towards the sun. "Yes. _Yes_."

"Once I have you, I will not let you go," the God warns; He runs a hand down the Gift's bare arm, down to his naked thigh, coaxing the coiled legs to untwist, urging the Gift to lie back on the dark, sweet earth. He goes with no resistance, looking up at Him with a sort of fear, but also a sort of wonder. "You will be Mine, and it will be forever." He follows the Gift down, hovering over him with one pale hand planted in the earth, the other light upon the Gift's bare chest, feeling the tremble of his heart. "I will not have you leave My side, not for a moment. You will be Mine. Completely."

"You..." The Gift breathes in, breathes out, a steady rush of air. His hand, wondering, comes to touch the God's face as the God had earlier touched him, cupping the sharp line of the chin, gentle. "You would have me?"

The God smiles down upon him. "Did you truly think I would not?"

"I..." Another flutter of eyelashes, another shudder. "The man who fathered me. He came to me, before I set out. He said... He said You would not come. That You would not want me. That, if I was lucky, a devil would come and claim me instead."

"But you do not believe in devils," the God reminds him, chiding.

"He is a devil," the Gift says, earnestly. "Not the same sort the villagers believe in, but... If he came for me, it would not be the way he came for my mother. And I would meet Death but... but not gentle. Not like You."

"Not your lover." This time, when the Gift shudders, it is a different sort of shudder; he softens, sinking into the earth, and his legs splay open. The God rests His body between those spread thighs, presses His body to the Gift's, belly-to-belly. "Yes," the God says, softly. "I will have you. And I will keep you by My side forever, if you wish it."

The Gift's arms twine around the God's shoulders, like vines wrapped around an oak tree. "I do wish it," the Gift says. "I... You are more beautiful, and more gentle, than even my mother could have told me, and I... I would be Yours. Forever, if You will have me that long."

"Then I will kiss you now," the God says, and does so, pressing the Gift back into the earth, pressing their lips together. The Gift's eyes flutter shut one last time; his lips part in a gasp, and the God drinks in his breath (sweet, warm, like the gifts of the harvest) and gives back His own. And the Gift breathes the God's breath, and shudders, and then grows still.

The God draws back for a moment to observe His work; the Gift, lying slack and still and lifeless in His arms. Then He leans back in, and with gentle lips and sweet breath, kisses His lover back to consciousness.

It is a long task, but by no means unpleasant; within moments, His lover's arms are twined around Him once more, clutching tighter than they did while he was mortal and afraid, and his lips are soft and pliant, parting easily when the God's tongue gently tests their seam. And the God does not stop there; He tastes His lover, and lets His lover taste Him; He holds His lover and is held by him; and even when He is most emphatically assured that His lover is awake, and aware, and is His, He finds it very hard to pull away. But pull away He does, at last, and observes His lover, no longer anyone's Gift, watches his eyes finally flutter open, bringing the warmth of summer with them.

"You taste of pomegranates," His lover says, and laughs, a sleep-drunk sound. "You... My mother kissed me, when I was a boy. But I have never been kissed like that."

"Should I kiss you again?" the God asks, coming teasingly close, but pulling back when His lover leans up, begging for him as a flower does the sun. "And should I take you to My bed, after, and show you what comes next? For there is more to love than kissing, and I would teach you all I know. It will be sweet, I promise you. Sweet as pomegranate seeds."

His lover gazes at Him, hazy and adoring. " _Please_ ," he says. "I... Yes, kiss me, take me, show me. I want it all. I want You. Please."

And the God kisses him again, and again, and presses him into the earth as though pressing him into the softness of a bed, and keeps kissing him, His Gift, His lover. And as He presses His lover down, the earth gives way beneath them, and they sink slowly, slowly, into the realm below, there to stay together, side-by-side, as lovers long to be.

And those who do not know the old ways will say that it was different. They will say that the boy was taken by force, rent from his mother, and that although the villagers tried to save him from the God's avarice, they arrived too late to accomplish the deed. And that the patch of flowers in the old glade, bright red and gold and white, mark the place where the ground split open and swallowed them, boy and God alike, and that the gold is for the hair the mother tore from her own scalp, in the agony of her grief. The red is for the blood that seeped from her skin as she clawed at the ground, desperate to reclaim her only son. And the white is the tears she shed for her boy, until the day she died. But those who know the old ways know the truth, that the flowers mark the spot where Death took His first and only lover; that the gold is the color of the boy's warm skin, and the white reflects the pale beauty of Death himself.

And the red, of course, is for pomegranates, which are nearly as sweet as love.


End file.
